Standard Operating Procedures
by writedrunk
Summary: Flight attendant Brittany S. Pierce isn't prepared when she suspects a plane hijack, or when she meets a beautiful woman with too many names. She isn't ready for a simple coincidence to change the rest of her life. Brittana AU.
1. In-flight Incidents

A/N: Initial inspiration for this came from whatistheretoponderabout's first chapter of Sky High (thanks btw), but it's soon headed in a totally different direction, I promise. Thanks to LateInLifeTiburon for being my temporary beta! Also, I don't own Glee. If I did, it would look a lot different.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Violence, sex, and potentially violent sex in later chapters.

**Chapter 1: In-flight Incidents**

During training, they talk like it won't actually happen, like the instructions and the safety protocol are really just a formality. It's probably because they figure that if you need to know the emergency procedures you're already pretty much fucked. Maybe that's why when it does happen, I can't remember a single one of those things I'm supposed to do.

-x-

This morning I had two domestic flights: one from LAX to San Jose, then a three-hour layover before another flight from San Jose to SeaTac. I wandered around SeaTac for two hours because they have to give me a solid break before my nine hour flight to Heathrow. I always hated that part—the waiting around. I can't get a drink because I'll be on the job soon and I feel silly just people-watching. Eventually I cave and buy one of those cheap-ass airport paperbacks. I don't even remember what it was about now.

I'm almost to chapter 4 when someone calls, "Hey B!" I snap the book closed and hide the cover in my lap before I look up through my bangs. There's a blonde woman dressed like me standing a few feet off, and when I smile and wave she comes closer.

"Hey Quinn."

She readjusts the bag that's slung over one of her dainty shoulders and gestures at the gate I'm sitting closest to, "You on 519 to Heathrow?"

"Yep." I smile. That means at least we'll have a decent in flight crew. "The grounds crew is supposed to clear us to board in like," I check my watch and scrunch my nose, "like five minutes ago."

She nods slowly before I see her forehead crease. She points to my bags and arcs an eyebrow. I've got a rolling upright carry-on propped up against my leg and an embarrassingly green duffel shoved under my chair.

"After this flight I get a couple vacation days. I figured I'd just stay and spend them in London."

"Oh that'll be fun, you going to do the tourist thing?" She looks legitimately envious.

I shrug. I've been to Heathrow twice in the last weeks, and dozens of times since switching to US Airways in April. Sometimes I spend a night, or a day there, trying to sleep on a barcalounger in the crew lounge or in one of those cookie-cutter Express hotel rooms until I have to be back for the next flight out of Heathrow.

It seems weird that I can't actually think of a single time I've done the 'tourist thing' anywhere. To be honest, I'm not sure I really know how. But instead of saying all that I just smile and say, "Yeah, I hear the Eye is pretty cool."

She's about to reply when I see someone approach from behind her. I wave.

Quinn spins around in a second to see Sam's blonde hair and smooth smile and striped epaulets. He waves the clipboard in his hand in greeting and says, "Hey ladies." I watch Quinn unconsciously run fingers through her ponytail as she surely blushes under his gaze.

Offhandedly I wonder if they've ever been a thing before—Sam and Quinn. They're so awkward with each other sometimes I think it might suffocate the passengers. I have to admit they'd be cute. They'd have blonde bombshell babies. I suppose, though, they couldn't really date officially because that'd be a pilot and a stewardess in a relationship and I'm pretty sure that's against policy somehow. Not that Quinn is usually all that concerned with the rules.

I am a little though, and that's why I don't tell anyone that I've hooked up with three different pilots in the last month.

I realize I haven't been listening to them talk when I suddenly hear my name. "Britt, are you sure those are dress code?" Sam's pointing at his own ears and I don't get what he's saying until I realize he's talking about my ears, and I reach up to feel the long feather earrings dangling from each one.

Quinn leans in and, throwing a glance behind her at Sam, and says, "Ignore him, you look hot." She smiles at him mischievously and I can't believe they've just used me to flirt with each other.

Sam fidgets and looks down at his watch. "So why aren't you guys on board yet?"

I jump at the opportunity to change the subject. "We're waiting for the okay from grounds crew. Maybe they ran into some technical stuff?"

Sam scratches his head and just looks more confused. "I got cleared to board fifteen minutes ago."

Quinn looks between the two of us and, as if to settle a debate, says, "Weird, oh well. Brittany, do you want to greet or do overhead assistance?"

"Greet." I answer immediately and then struggle to pack away my book and gather my luggage to follow Sam and Quinn, who are already halfway to the bridge.

I like greeting the passengers when they board the plane. I like seeing who struggles with the bags they've packed too full, who makes eye contact with me, who's probably going to order four shots of something hard and pass out.

Sometimes, when I'm bored, I like to guess things about people. I don't tell them to their face, obviously. That would probably be rude. As they shuffle past me popping their gum and gripping their Starbucks, I try to imagine what their life might be like, their dirty secrets, their bad habits.

Sometimes a man in tweed is recently divorced with a gambling problem, the kid in basketball shorts who's plugged into an iPod is on his way to visit a dad who used to hit his mom. The woman on the phone who checks out the pilot is filthy rich, but is cheating on her live-in boyfriend.

Once, I thought I'd pegged this guy really well as one of those creeps on To Catch a Predator. I thought it was such a good call that I told Quinn, but she got pissed and told me that was super judgmental. I didn't mean for it to be judgmental. I was still going to serve the guy his sprite and pasta salad. Quinn just went on this little rant about how we're supposed to be courteous and attentive and friendly to all the passengers, even if they look like pedophiles.

I do try to be friendly, honestly, I do. I try but sometimes I forget. I'm not stupid; I know they didn't hire me to do this job because I'm kind to everyone and I can pour a six dollar cup of cabernet in turbulence like a boss. Quinn, too. For all that talk about being friendly, she isn't, really. They hired both of us because we're gorgeous.

People treat you differently when you're pretty, I can tell. I think they assume that you're sweet and kind and fun to be around. So we don't have to work all that hard at being friendly. Quinn especially, people smile with their eyes when she talks to them, they laugh louder.

I guess I don't blame them, she is really attractive. She's pretty and hot and everything, but I decided the other day that the best word to describe Quinn is petite. I'm pretty sure that's not what the word is supposed to mean, but that's what it should mean. Petite should mean 'looks like Quinn.'

Maybe I'm just thinking of the word pretty.

I'm not pretty. Not like Quinn anyway. When people smile and laugh with Quinn, they grin at me. They wiggle their eyebrows, try to say something smooth and they let their eyes wander. I guess that's okay. They're still nice, and sometimes they give me tips and tell me to "have one for yourself."

But I never actually do. I don't know why, though, because when people buy me drinks in bars or suggest a night-cap back at their place I pretty much always say yes. Unless they look like pedophiles.

When we're spot-cleaning the cabin and double-checking the safety information pamphlets, Quinn mumbles something about "so much for a three-person team." I think about suggesting that maybe Tina hasn't gotten the cleared-for-boarding memo yet, but I think Quinn thinks that was just my mistake.

It's when I'm standing on an armrest to clear an overhead bin that there's footsteps and Tina pulls the first-class curtain back, muttering, "shit, shit, shit," under her breath.

Quinn looks up from a safety pamphlet to check her watch and look back up at the third stewardess, no doubt noting the stray hairs coming out of Tina's pony and the crookedness of her skirt. Quinn's eyes narrow, "What?"

Tina plops her messenger bag on a seat next to her and reaches up to fix her hair. "Sorry I'm so late. There was something going on at security and they had to double check through my whole file." She pulls a tiny mirror out of her jacket pocket to check her eye makeup, and continues without looking up, "Did you guys hear? Our flight manifest is wrong."

I don't think Quinn likes Tina, because she's trying really hard to make it look like she's not interested. My curiosity, however, gets the best of me, so I hop off the armrest and ask, "What do you mean the manifest is wrong?"

"I guess the numbers don't add up." Tina shrugs and puts her mirror away. She notices I still look confused and adds, "Someone's got a boarding pass last minute and they're not on the list, but we got orders from airport authority that this flight lets anyone with a pass onboard. Weird huh? I don't do the conspiracy theory stuff, but that's seriously weird."

Quinn looks up from another row. "Maybe someone at check-in just screwed up."

Tina's about to answer, but just then Sam pulls the curtain aside and leans his hands against the rod at the top. "First class boards in two minutes, everybody set?" Tina doesn't turn around, but Quinn and I nod anyway. "Great, Britt? You ready?"

"Totally," I say, and follow him up to the front.

Sam likes to greet, I can tell. He's got that giant smile and I have to admit, he looks great in that pilot jacket. I'd trust him to fly an airplane any day. I guess I sort of do. I think people think the same thing when he says, "Hi, welcome aboard!" I debate whether or not to tell him about the flight manifest and the numbers, but then three guys in business suits with cell phones and briefcases are walking down the bridge and I have to plaster on my friendly smile.

"Hello, welcome on board with US Airways." I think I say the line in my sleep sometimes, I use it so much. After the three musketeers comes toupee guy and four women who look like they're on their way to Cougar Town. First-Class passengers are boring, but when we start to fill Economy, I get to greet kids in soccer-camp families, and old couples who walk hand in hand and need help stowing their bags.

After a man with rat teeth and a sweater vest, there's a guy with olive skin and five o'clock shadow. He doesn't really smile. I wonder if they gave him the full pat-down at security. He just grips his backpack tighter and nods a bit before pushing past me into the cabin.

(Maybe that's when I should have said something, that first time he rubbed me the wrong way, before anything else happened. But it's just a feeling somewhere in my gut and at the back of my neck, and soon he's disappeared into the cabin.)

When he's passed, I see two kids in matching windbreakers tear around the corner, their arms held straight out, airplane noises spluttering from their lips. Two parents are quick in tow with the remnants of two happy meals in hand and a bald baby riding the hip of his mother. As they shuffle past I stop and flash a reassuring smile at the father, who mouths "So, so sorry."

I would have seen her coming had I not been so distracted by Five O'clock Shadow, the prickling at the back of my neck, and airplane noises. But I was distracted, and when I look back down the bridge, my breath catches in my throat. I forget my friendly smile as I swear my eyes roam of their own free will.

Snug jeans cover legs and thighs and slender hips, and the white buttons of her blouse pull at its fabric as she walks, arms swaying back and forth. Dark hair falls around her shoulders, and when Sam grins and says, "Hi welcome aboard," she doesn't even look at him.

Her eyes, beautiful, dark eyes, stay trained on mine, and the only word I can force out of my mouth is "…hi."

Full lips part as she smiles. She readjusts the aviators perched on her head, glancing down in a moment of rosy self-consciousness. I can't help but notice impossibly long lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She's almost passing me (impossibly close and miles away) before she finally turns to look at me again. She meets my gaze and just says, "Hi."

When she disappears into the cabin, I swear to God I feel like my insides are tearing.

I almost turn to watch her leave, but Sam clears his throat, and I whip around to greet a guy with wispy hair and rose-tinted glasses.

And then I notice my heart is beating like a damn jackhammer.

"What the hell was that about?" Sam is smirking at me, eyebrows raised in confusion. I feel myself start to turn even redder, and he says, "You just totally ignored that Asian guy."

I whip around again to see the back of a skinny man with short dark hair. Dammit. I shake my head to clear it. "Sorry." No wonder Sam thinks I'm a space cadet.

-x-

"Hey, Britt!" Quinn is leaning out from behind the back curtain so that I can see the boarding pass stubs she waves at me.

"What?" I ask, pushing the last overhead bin closed with a click.

"Don't you want to find out who's messing with the numbers? Now we can figure out who's not on the manifest!" Quinn's face is bright with mischief.

I scrunch up my nose and think a moment before heading into the back; I don't think the passengers should be overhearing that the numbers are wrong. I don't know why, but it doesn't seem very smart. I don't answer, but she grins and sets the passes out on the stainless steel counter, flipping through them and checking off names with a blue ballpoint.

I'm not as excited as Quinn, so I stand in the doorway, dutifully guarding the conspiring stewardess. I watch idly as Tina helps an elderly woman with her tray-table. She finally straightens up, nods at the woman and walks to the front of the plane. Over the intercom, her high, raspy voice starts to run through the script. "Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the crew I ask that you please direct your attention to the monitors above as we review the emergency procedures. There are six emergency exits… "

As I gaze up and down the rows, I notice dark hair and white clothed shoulder poking out from an aisle seat half-way down. I must have missed her before. She's not really listening to Tina over the speakers, I can tell. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances down the aisle, looks over the seats, like she's searching for someone.

"Oxygen masks will drop down from above your seat. Place the mask over your mouth and nose, like this. Pull the strap to tighten it. If you are traveling with children..."

"Hey Britt, I found him!" Quinn pulls the stubs together in a pile and gestures excitedly to the manifest before her, a tiny note now scribbled at the bottom. "Her, actually."

I lean over her to read the swirling script. In blue ink, she's written _Monica Morales 29D_. Quinn shuffles past me to look down the aisle. It's quite a ways, but Quinn hardly has to see the numbers to know where 29D is. "It's her, with the dark hair." Quinn is probably pointing, but I don't even have to look to know exactly who she's talking about. There's a pause before Quinn speaks again, "Wow, she's really beautiful."

I shuffle behind her to see the dark-haired woman, now glancing across the aisle and back a few seats, her mouth trained into a pout. "Huh, yeah," I manage to mumble, trying to sound as neutral as possible. I think about saying that I knew there was _something_ different about her, or asking since when Quinn started saying things like that, but neither would be well received so I keep my mouth shut.

Soon Tina is back behind the curtain too, and Quinn can't help but share the news in an intense whisper. For some reason I don't want to hear it all laid out again, so I dart out to straighten a seat that doesn't really need straightening.

When we're in the air, Tina whines that she's done the Safety Briefing, and so Quinn and I do in-flight food service. As I pass out turkey and ham sandwiches, I find myself studying the passengers—toupee guy, airplane kids, five o'clock shadow—wondering who that woman might be looking for. But I still don't think I'm as excited about all this as Tina or Quinn.

I feel a nervous twitch in my stomach as I approach her row, trying hard not to keep glancing her way when another passenger is talking.

When I've said enough 'ham or turkey?'s and 'something to drink?'s to reach her, I suddenly decide to change my cadence. In a moment of bold energy, I give her a grin and say, "And what would _you_ like to eat today?" She smiles at me, knowingly, like she's seen right through my mediocre attempt at being forward. I curse at myself for being so obvious, confused because I've never felt self-conscious about flirting before. But then she lets her gaze wander down my body, and I don't mind it at all.

Finally, she cocks her head to the side in thought, "Can I just have a water?"

As I fumble with the bottles in my cart, I can feel the heat of her gaze. She lets electric fingers graze mine when she takes the cup from me. "Thanks," her eyes dart to the silver name tag pinned to my chest, "Brittany." She says my name like she's tasting it, feeling it with her tongue, and then she sucks her lower lip into her mouth. I blink hard to shift my gaze to the couple next to her. When I have to lean over to hand them their sandwich boxes and drinks, she doesn't shift away or look down, she just watches me. As I hand the last guy his napkin, I let my bare knee brush up against the hand she's resting on hers, and through the heady rush of endorphins, I swear I see her smirk.

I'm another three rows down before my face stops feeling hot, and I can control my smile again.

Maybe all this conspiracy stuff is a bit exciting.

-x-

Two hours into the flight and I start to get bored again. After passing out sandwiches and going back to fetch the vegetarian options, I helped a guy with his headphones, found a blanket for a wrinkled woman who already looked drunk, and told a kid to stop kicking the seat in front of him. When the post-snack lull kicks in I chat with Quinn a few minutes before resorting to my cheap airport paperback once again. After a few pages I get up to apologize for a broken screen and I'm not two more chapters in before a sweet, breathy voice calls me back to reality. "You like those?"

I glance up and she's standing there, arms folded across her chest, leaning against the last empty passenger seat in the cabin. She nods toward the book in my lap. "Not really," I answer. "I'm just that bored." She laughs at that, and I can't even fight the smile that rises to my face.

"Sorry, Brittany," she pauses over my name again, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just waiting." She motions toward the bathroom and I see the little red square above the handle that means it's occupied.

"No, no, it's cool," I almost tack on her name too—Monica—but that might be creepy. "What's your name then?"

She tucks hair behind her ear again, and without falter, she says "Santana."

I must react, frown or scrunch my nose or something, because she sees my face and her smile fails her at the corners of her mouth, just a second, though, and she's smiling again.

"You leaving home or on your way back?" I rush through my question because I don't want her to stop talking, or stop looking at me like I'm fascinating.

"Neither, actually. I do overseas sales, it keeps me moving around a lot," she says. I nod even though I can't help but wonder if she's lying about that too.

"You like it?" I ask.

And then her eyes light up, perfect white teeth punctuate a smile that could never be anything but sincere. "Yeah, I like it a lot." I hear the toilet flush. "How about you? You like being a flight attendant or is it too boring for you?"

I open my mouth to say 'sometimes, I guess,' but the bathroom door flies open and Five O'clock Shadow emerges. He nods awkwardly at her and holds the door open, so she just smiles at me and disappears inside, the lock clicking definitively behind her.

Santana.

I hope that's her real name because Monica sounds straight off a nineties sitcom and Santana sounds sort of perfect.

I'm not sure I want to stay there until she comes back out again, but I watch airplane kid's mom reach above her to the assistance button, hear the dull ping, and realize that my decision's been made for me. I hear the crying once I start walking and soon see its origin propped in his mother's lap, clinging to his own forehead. The flustered woman bobs him up and down on her knee and looks up at me pleadingly, "He's hit his head. Is there any way we could get some ice or something...?"

I'm nodding before she can finish talking, and it's not until I'm about to leave that I notice the man sitting just behind her. I stop short.

Olive-skinned fingers are clutching the backpack in his lap, his five-o'clock shadow rippling as he grates his teeth, compulsively studying the back of the seat in front of him. I feel my stomach twisting immediately, like his unsettlingly potent anxiety is contagious.

"Excuse me sir, are you alright? Can I get you anything?" I venture. His cold gaze meets mine for a moment before he's looking back toward the window and shaking his head. It looks wrong—the bead of sweat above his lip, the flashing of his eyes—but I can't think over the kid's crying so I rush back to find a bag to put ice in.

I shiver as I shovel ice into a plastic bag with my bare hand and carefully tie it closed on itself. I don't know why I'm shaking, but it makes me drop the lid of the ice box on my own hand. Maybe he was having a panic attack, a psychotic episode? What are you supposed to do when a passenger totally flips their shit?

I have to swallow something back down my throat when I rush the ice bag back up to the crying kid and it's probably because I'm so shaky that my foot catches on something and suddenly I'm in the air. I throw my arms out to the side to stop myself and the ice lands, breaks across an armrest. I land roughly on my knees and the man beside me squirms away from the soon-to-melt ice. Before I can see who he is I stumble to my feet and splutter, "Shoot, sorry, sorry."

I reach out to grab the backpack, thinking maybe I can dry it off, but then I see that it's _that_ backpack, and olive fingers clamp around my jacket, pushing me back. Before I can blink, he's standing and I feel weightless because he's pinning me so easily against another seat.

Someone screams.

Suddenly things are happening and I don't have time to stop or think or plan, all that's left is pure animal reaction, reflex.

So I try to grab at his arm that's pinning me, and aim a kick at his shins but he's dropped the backpack and closes his free hand into a fist. I see it coming at me so far ahead that I brace myself. At first I just feel the impact, my head flying back, my ponytail hitting the back of my neck as my head rocks forward again. I hear more people screaming as I instinctively bring my hands to my face, over the cheekbone that's quickly becoming the focal point of the pain swirling through my head.

But his hand never leaves the collar of my jacket and I open my eyes just soon enough to see another hand flying through the air. I flinch but it collides with the guy's throat. There's a popping and he drops me, doubled over in shock. Slender hands yank on his shirt, pulling him away from me and into a knee that I realize belongs to Santana. People are gasping and clambering away from the struggle as she throws him onto his back down the aisle.

She pulls me out of my shock by grabbing at my chest and coming away with my US Airways ballpoint. Then she launches herself at the man, catching his arms under her knees. She grasps his neck and trains the tip of the pen just above his eye. With just a flick of her wrist the pen would crash into the vulnerable gap in his skull. I cringe at the crudeness of it, and he must be caught in terror as well, because his body finally stills beneath her.

"You move, I kill you," she hisses, and then clears her throat to address the passengers, "Everyone, I need you to stay calm, I'm security service. It's okay, I just need you all to stay in your seats." People start to hush at the command in her voice, imminent chaos curbed into a frantic hum. She calms herself with a quick breath, "I need handcuffs or zip ties or something, can you...?"

She risks a lightning look at me, but Quinn, who I realize is just behind me, nods and rushes off to the back. Santana returns her gaze to the man under her, and calls out, "You two, in this row right here to my left, I need you to very calmly move to other seats, alright?" Her voice is barely audible over the slowly subsiding panic of the other passengers, but Rat Teeth and a teenager in a Western Washington sweatshirt are instantly scrambling out of their seatbelts. "Right, climb out behind me," she cautions.

I'm just standing there, nearly helpless and completely unhelpful, holding my stinging cheek in my palm. I feel a tiny streak of something warm slide down before it runs against my hand. I pull away to find the blood, and instantly wipe it away with my thumb.

It's then that I notice the dark backpack still sitting against the armrest, and I lung at the chance to do something useful. I grab at one of the straps and sling it over my shoulder before moving to clear the way for Western Sweatshirt and Rat Reeth, still making their clumsy retreat.

"Brittany," Santana calls warningly behind her without turning her head. "Brittany, hold on to that backpack. Do not let go of it and do _not_ bang it around."

"Shit." Rat Teeth freezes, still straddling one of Santana's feet. "What do you mean don't bang it around?" He's loud, too loud. Santana ignores his question but he won't let up, "Why would you say that?"

Someone a few rows up whips around, wide-eyed and starts whimpering curse words. Santana's gaze never leaves Five O'clock Shadow but she raises her voice, "I need everyone to stay calm. Please, everyone– "

"Why can't she bang it around!?" Rat Teeth's voice is nearly a screech now, his feet still rooted to the spot.

"What?" I turn to see Quinn, her face ashen, knuckles white as she grips a roll of duct tape. I think about trying to explain, but Rat Teeth is doing a pretty damn good job of telling the world.

Instead I pull the tape free from her grasp and say, "We got duct tape."

"Right," Santana hardly waits a beat before pulling her pen-hand back and bringing the flat of her knuckles down against her victim's face. Five O'clock Shadow emits a low grunt and I see his feet twitch in pain. Santana uses his shock to pull him by his collar up from the floor and she throws him into the vacant seat. In seconds, she's taken the tape and wrapped it around his wrists and the armrest.

Rat Teeth has to back up a few steps as she tapes the man to his seat, but his screeching is persistent, "What's in the backpack?" he steps closer to her, trying to demand her attention, "Why would you say she can't– "

"Alright, Rat Face," Santana finally spins to face the man, "_Shut the fuck up_." Her hands are on his shoulders now, "There is nothing whatsoever to panic about, so you don't get to panic, you don't get to make anyone else panic." Airplane kid starts to cry. "I tell you when to panic, and you, Mr Jingles, do not get to panic right now, so keep your tiny rodent-sized assumptions to yourself. Okay?"

He stands there, mouth slightly agape as she turns to me and roughly pulls the backpack from my shoulders. Someone somewhere says, "What assumptions?" and I barely overhear someone else mumble "bomb in the bag" before Santana's soft hand is at my chin and she's looking straight into my eyes.

"Brittany, I need you to tell the captain that we have to divert the flight. We can't go to Heathrow or enter international air space." For a moment I don't hear her words because _damn_, her eyes are deep and beautiful and mesmerizing. By the time she's said, "Can you do that for me?" I'm registering her question.

I nod, but that needling doubt in the back of my mind is back again. I don't even know her name. Santana? Monica? Something else? What did she say she did? Overseas sales? This is not overseas sales.

She nods at me in confirmation, and the corner of her mouth turns up in half a smile.

She did kind of save my life.

Santana shoulders the backpack and I can hear her enlist Quinn's help in silencing the panicking passengers. I've already turned at that point, and tap the back of the seats I pass, filled, finally, with some sense of purpose. I'm brushing past the last curtain on the way to the flight deck when I see Tina. She's sitting against the main exit doors, knees pulled protectively over her chest

"S-she said not t-to bang it around, Brittany. Did you hear her? I kn-know what that means." Her eyes are brimming and I wonder, just fleetingly, if I'm stupid for not being scared.

I don't know what to tell her, so instead I turn to slide open cockpit doors. I grip the handle and throw the weight of my shoulders against it, but the plastic-plated slider barely opens a centimeter before stopping with a click, held by the interior deadlock. I glance at Tina in confusion and she finally meets my gaze. Her eyes flick to my still-stinging cheek. "I t-told Sam," Tina chokes out. "He can't c-come out now, 'cause we suspect a hijack. No matter what happens to us, he can't come out."

I struggle to ignore Tina's resignation, and bang my fist against the door, "Sam? Sam can you hear me? We have to land the plane." He doesn't answer, so I bang a little harder, "It's just me, Brittany. We have to divert the flight."

I wait a moment, my ear pressed up against the cool plastic, straining to hear any sign of life within. Sam's muffled voice responds after a beat. "I won't give in to terrorist demands."

"No, no Sam, I'm not a terrorist, I'm Brittany. Everything's fine now, but we need to land the plane."

Sam waits before shouting back, "I can't Brittany, I don't really know what's going on out there but I can't open the door. I can't be that guy who gave in." My stomach falls when I realize he's right. He can't know that everything is fine. He has no way to tell there isn't a gun at my head right now.

Tina starts to cry, her voice strained as she whines, "It's going to happen again, it's going to happen again." A tear falls from the edge of her eye and her mascara smudges as she wipes it away.

And that's when I decide to stop being so fucking useless.

"Sam!" I pound on the door again in renewed vigor. "You don't have to open the door, that's fine, and there was a guy freaking out, but he's duct taped to an armrest. I don't need you to come out or do anything but just divert the flight." Tina sniffs. "I know there's probably procedure for this, there's something I'm supposed to do so you know everything is alright, but I can't remember what it is."

Fucking idiot, I can't remember what it is. "It's probably some code or something, right? Some number or password that you know and we're supposed to know that a terrorist wouldn't, so if I did have a gun to my head, I could give you the wrong code. Then you'd know not to come out."

I do my best to reason it out, "Look, if there was a gun to my head, I'd be giving you some made-up string of numbers so that you'd know not to divert, but there isn't and I don't fucking remember the all-clear code! So please, please, just divert the flight and let us land before we cross the Atlantic!" For good measure, I throw in, "Please Sam, just divert the flight."

I don't wait for him to answer. I give Tina one last look of pity before leaving her there, on the floor, and I rush back down the aisle. In economy, Quinn has done an impressive job shushing the masses. There are still frantic whispers, a baby is crying. I notice Rat Teeth wringing his hands and I try to avoid glancing over at Five O'clock Shadow, but I see the blood spilling from his nose anyway.

I search a sea of anxious faces for Santana's until I hear her calling from the back, "Brittany, come here, give me a hand." Her head is poking out from behind the back curtain. "I need you to hold this right here so I can see." When I've pulled back the curtain, I can see the tiny flashlight poking out from between her teeth while she carefully holds apart a laptop and its bottom battery cover. I see the black backpack lying lifeless on the floor, the rest of its contents scattered: a notebook, an empty bottle of Pepsi, travel tissues, and recently-worn pair of gym socks.

Santana grunts at me in mild urgency, and I timidly pull the light out from between her lips. "Great, just shine it right in there, thanks." She holds the cover with one hand so that it hovers just above its designated home, using the other hand to fish a pair of tweezers out of her pocket. "Sometimes," she says, "These things are set to trigger a small explosion if they're forced open, just to wipe clean the data." She inserts the tweezers in between the cover and the laptop, like she's fishing for something. I try to swallow back that twisting in my stomach. At least the nerves distract from the sharp pain of my cheek. "Which isn't really a problem, except that we don't want it to blow up in our face."

"Uh huh." I nod with growing unease before I realize it's shaking the light, and immediately stop.

"Is he diverting the flight?" She reaches further under the cover.

"I don't know. I think so."

She doesn't respond, but I think I see her jaw clench. I think she's about to reprimand me, but instead just says, "What happens to the sewage on this plane?"

"Uh, I think there's a tank under the bathroom that they empty out between flights." I answer even before I realize what she's talking about. She's trying to find a way to dispose of the contents on the laptop. As an afterthought, I throw in, "But I don't think the drain is big enough for a motherboard to fit through."

She nods slowly, craning her neck to see further into the computer. A strand of hair falls over her face, but she flips it away with her head. With a final delve of the tweezers, she takes in a sharp breath. I cringe expecting the worst, but then she lets out this triumphant laugh and says, "Got it." She flips open the battery cover and plucks a large data chip from the intestines of the computer. "Now, how to destroy it."

I glance around the stewardess station, madly searching for something that could permanently kill electronics. My gaze falls on the microwave above a back counter, and I vaguely recall the time in fourth grade that I tried to nuke a mood ring. "Can you microwave it?"

Santana pauses a moment before looking up at me with sparkling eyes, "Wow, that's genius."

I hardly have time to revel in her approval when we hear the familiar ding of the intercom switching on. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Due to unforeseen complications, US Airways, flight 519 will be making a slight diversion. We are going to make an emergency landing at St. Paul International Airport near Minneapolis in the next 20 minutes." Santana looks back from the microwave again, meeting my grin with her own. Nodding her thanks, she punches 00:30 sec. into the machine and gently warns me back with one of her arms.

"For all those needing to fly on to London, a connecting flight will be able to help you finish your journey. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused and thank you for your continuing cooperation."

As the first sparks start to fly behind the microwave's protective glass, Santana ushers us out of the station and pulls the curtain closed behind us. Then she places a firm hand on my back and whispers, "You should probably buckle up for the descent."

Santana takes an empty seat at the back and I scan the cabin for one of my own. I don't see one immediately, but keep searching as I wander further up the aisle.

It's probably because I'm searching so far up ahead that I don't notice the lack of duct tape wrapped around one of the armrests, or the way Five O'clock Shadow's head is no longer bobbing lifelessly on his shoulders. As it is, I don't notice anything until that warm, breathy voice is shouting at me from the back of the cabin.

"Brittany!"

I spin on my heels just in time to see wild eyes, the blood running sideways across a scratched cheek, two bound fists flying towards my face. I duck my head just in time to miss his hands, but they come across my shoulder and force me backward. As I struggle to regain my footing, something catches on my heel and I feel myself falling back down against something hard. And then I don't feel anything else.


	2. A Civilian Liaison

**Chapter 2: A Civilian Liaison**

When my vision returns, it's fuzzy. I see pale light from far away, and I start to hear my own ragged breathing. Voices come into focus but they sound cold and strained. I wonder if I'm wearing earplugs and try to lift my hands to my head to check, but someone holds my wrists down.

Then I feel the pounding in my head.

I think I moan, even though I don't mean to, and someone says, "She's coming around."

I see a face in front of me start to become clear, a smile. "Coming where?" I whisper.

The face in front of me smiles wider, it think it glows, and perfect lips part in a light laugh. I want to ask if she's an angel, but when she looks down at the rest of my body, I recognize her fluttering lashes. I try to form her name on my tongue, but instead she says, "Right here."

She shifts her body slightly and looks down at something in her hands. I think she asks me about today, and then about the President, but I can't stop reveling in the way her lips move, how she's the only thing I can see that's not fuzzy. I struggle to swallow and when she looks for my answer, all I can think to say is, "_Christ_, you're hot."

Her cheeks color, and a smile plays across her lips before she glances up at someone behind me. "That's the adrenaline talking. She'll be fine." And then she's gone, and I feel the pounding in my head even stronger than before. It beats in my ears with my pulse, and I think it's going to make my head burst. I try to hold my head together with my hands, but then I slip into nothingness again.

-x-

I wake up when strong arms are lifting me into one of the reclined passenger seats. I wonder fleetingly if they would mind carrying me to one of the seats in first-class, but it would be rude to ask. Soon I don't have to think about that anymore because the throbbing comes back and all I can do is focus on the rough ridges of the line where plastic meets metal on my armrest.

I think someone climbs over me into the aisle and I'm vaguely aware that moving bodies brush past me as they exit the plane. I feel a squeeze on my arm and hot breath in my ear as "You did good, kid" is whispered into my ear. And then I sit in silence, alone and counting the pulse in my ears because I need time to pass a little faster.

_One, two, three_, I open my eyes when I feel someone's finger along my cheek. Quinn pulls her hand away and I see blood just before she buries the finger in her other palm and smiles at me sweetly.

When I count to twenty-four, Quinn gets up to speak with someone a few rows ahead of us. I stop counting to hear what they say, but Quinn's voice is so low that it's gravely, and I can only make out a few of her words. I start to count again when she returns to my side. _Six, seven, eight,_ and suddenly the plane is full again, people are storming towards me and I see a light flashed in my eyes.

I blink to clear my vision, and see a man in an Airport Security jacket with thin eyebrows. He smiles at me and says, "Do you know what day it is?"

I blink hard. "Tuesday," I mumble, "Uh, it's September. Twenty-third or fourth, I don't know." The man has a chipped tooth in the front, and he nods and puts his fingers to my neck.

He checks his watch as he counts the beats of my pulse like I did. "Did you black out when you hit your head?" he asks, and I can't help but wonder how he can do that—count and talk at the same time.

"Yeah, and again after that," I reply. He asks about nausea too, and tells me to move my fingers and toes. I don't know why, but the longer he talks, the lighter the pounding and the more I feel a sting on my cheek. I reach up to touch it, but the security guy grabs my wrist to stop me, like I'm a danger to myself.

When he stands up, he mumbles something to Quinn and pats my shoulder. And then he's gone. Quinn helps me out of the aisle seat and I try to tell her that I'm fine, I can walk, but then the ground moves from under me and I cling to the first headrest I can find. When I regain my footing, Quinn gently replaces the headrest with her shoulder and pulls me forward.

Then I see him—the slumped figure of a man with olive skin. He's been pushed up against the window, and I see a patch of blood on the hard plastic window frame, just above his head. Shouldn't someone be taking his pulse? Asking him what day it is? But before I can say something, Quinn is pulling at my waist, leading me forward.

She takes me all the way down the aisle and out into the terminal. I stop to rest in one of those leather-backed chairs but Quinn nervously checks her phone and squats in front of me.

"B," she says, and carefully rests her hands on my thighs. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, totally," I spit out, but I have to stop nodding because it makes the pounding worse.

"I have to go, I can't get my next flight covered. Is that okay?" She pushes the hair out of my eyes.

I try to smile and I pat her hands to shake off her concern. "Of course, go!"

"Okay, your bag is right here, maybe just rest a bit before you get up yeah?" I glance at the shoulder bag and suitcase on the floor next to me and nod, and then she's gone. I try to look for her, thank her, but scanning the terminal starts to hurt, so I close my eyes and just count for a while.

_One, two, three_. Someone sneezes nearby.

_Eighteen, nineteen, twenty_. I remember the stinging on my cheek and reach up to feel the raised edge of a cut, already forming into a thin scab.

_Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one_. I hear an announcement on the intercom, but forget to pay attention.

At sixty-four I realize that the throbbing is going down, and at ninety-two I open my eyes again. Edges are clearer now than they were before, and at one hundred, I risk leaning forward and rising slowly to my feet. I sway at first, but quickly steady myself. I try to take a step forward, but my foot crashes against one of my bags and I lurch forward. "Dammit," I breathe, and gently reach to fumble with handles of my luggage. Maybe the extra weight in each hand will help me steady my strides.

I take a few teetering steps forward before one of my bags bounces off my thigh and twists behind me uncomfortably. I curse again and try to power through it, but stop short. Because I hear that voice.

"Hey there." She's leaning up against one of the reception stations, arms folded across her chest, aviators propped up on her head.

Suddenly the suitcases don't matter and it's not just my body that's off balance. I say, "hi," because I can't think of anything else to say. But she just stands there, waiting for me to do something else, say something else. So I say the only thing that makes any sense to me. "I'd ask if you wanted to head back to my place. But it's in New York. And we're not. And..." and so many things I can't explain them all. "And I probably have a concussion or something."

"You know where you are?"

I look around me a moment, but that doesn't help, so I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember. "St. Paul," I say, even though it's more of a guess than anything else.

"You know St. Paul?" I must have guessed right, because there's no hint of mirth in her voice. Instead, her eyebrows are knitted together in naked concern. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and lets her question—a dozen questions all phrased into one—hang in the air.

I let my eyes linger on that lip a little too long before I finally reply to all of them. "No, not really."

She smiles again and unfolds her arms. I try to study the way her hips sway when she walks, but she's soon at my side, pulling the luggage from my grasp and calling over her shoulder, "Come on, I'll help you," and so easily the issue is settled.

She walks steadily in front of me, occasionally checking behind her to make sure I'm still following. I quickly realize that I can't look up at the signs because the great LEDs hanging from the ceiling burn at my corneas and pinch behind my eyes. Instead, I just follow her, too lost to do anything but trust her to lead me out of the airport.

I walk closely behind, watching the way the back pockets of her jeans rise and fall with each stride. When we finally make it out into a blast of night air and she sets my bags on the curb, I find myself struggling to tell her something. It's not till her hand is in the air, hailing an approaching taxi that I figure out what it is.

"Thank you."

She turns toward me, hand still hanging above her head and smirks, "No problem. You just looked kind of confused."

The airport taxi rolls to a stop, and she's opening the car door for me when I correct her, "No, I mean, before that." I climb into the back seat, swinging my legs in after me. "Thank you for saving my life. Everyone's life probably."

She studies me from under furrowed eyebrows, weighing my words. She opens her mouth once, twice, before she responds resolutely, "You're welcome." Then she swings the door closed behind me, like it'll close my mouth too.

I don't look up when she climbs in the other side and mumbles something to the cab driver. He grunts at her and I wait for her to settle back into her seat, one leg crossed over the other, elbow propped up against the car door. The taxi pulls us into traffic. "You don't get thanked very often," I guess.

"No." She smiles, "I guess I don't stick around long enough afterward."

"You're sticking around this time."

Her eyes twinkle, "that's because you don't know St. Paul," and then she looks back out the window, her view illuminated by occasional streetlights and far-off flashes of the city.

-x-

Over the comforting hum of the engine I lull in and out of awareness, slipping between memory, unanswered questions, and the muted curve of her jaw. I still don't know her name, but I stay silent, content to watch as the fabric of her shirt pulls open slightly with the rise and fall of her chest.

Perhaps I'm so deep in my own hazy confusion that I can't even articulate the questions that might help me understand.

Perhaps I've been seduced by the mystery.

Suddenly I realize that she is looking back at me, watching as passing streetlights gleam yellow through the taxi window and run over my bangs. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip and combs delicate fingers through her hair before letting the hand fall back on the seat between us.

Her caramel hands are marred by the red cracks along her knuckles, the casualties of struggle. I unwillingly recall the rumpled jacket, the way arms were forced into odd angles, the red stain on white plastic, five o'clock shadow just barely visible behind slumped shoulders.

Our silence is interrupted by my curiosity. "That guy, on the plane," my voice cracks, but I go on, "He was dead, wasn't he?"

She responds with something like pity written across her face. "Yes."

I swallow before daring to press further, "Did you kill him?"

Her face hardens, like clay left out in the sun for too long. But she doesn't hesitate.

"Yes."

-x-

When the room only has one king bed, I should be surprised, but I'm not. I'm glad, actually. I feel like the game is over, even though I don't remember it starting. The inevitability is thrilling, it shoots through me, twists and flutters through my stomach.

I let my fingers explore the quilting of our duvet, I take in that so familiar smell of hotel sheets and the red glow of the alarm clock that reads 11:46pm. I switch on the bedside lamp so that she won't have to turn on the main lights.

I hear my luggage thump to the ground where they'll soon be forgotten, and listen to her footsteps as they come closer and stop just behind me. "Is this okay?" Her voice is deep and warm and so close to my ear that I can feel it like humming in my chest. It makes my heart beat faster and I just nod.

"How's your head feeling?"

I let my eyes close as I listen for the pounding in my ears. "Good, fine," I mumble, and I have to stop talking because her fingers start to draw circles into my shoulder and my back. I think I lean into it as I finish my thought, "the throbbing stopped."

She steps behind me and brings her other hand to my shoulder, now rubbing firmer circles with her thumbs. "Mhmm," she hums into my ear, and her thumbs drop lower on my back. She starts to push harder and move deeper so that I can feel my whole body swaying at her touch.

I wonder if I'm still dizzy.

"Do you want to use the bathroom first?" she whispers. I don't know if she means before she uses it or before anything else happens, but either way, I shake my head.

Her fingers graze my neck at the edge of my collar as she pulls the blue blazer off my shoulders, down my arms. I see it fall haphazardly across the foot of the bed in front of me before her fingers are drawing circles in my back again.

I feel them drop lower before they still at my sides, leaving cold paths across my skin where I'm so quickly missing her fingers. Then she pauses for an age. When she speaks, her voice just barely shakes. "Are you afraid of me?"

It catches me off guard, and I scrunch my nose in confusion. "Why? Are you going to hurt me or something?"

A soft laugh escapes her lips before she replies. "No, of course not." She starts to massage the base of my spine, but I feel a twinge when she pushes too hard, so I turn around to face her.

She looks up at me with dark eyes, and flips a lock of hair from her face. I can't help but smile when I realize she smells like honey and warm leather. The low angle of the light and the darkness of the room play against the curves of her cheek, the slope of her nose. Shadows make her lashes look even longer than they did before. She wets her bottom lip with her tongue and I see the way her jaw is clenched, her eyebrows furrowed in deep uncertainty.

Her eyes, timid for the first time since I've met her, stay locked onto mine, a thousand things flashing across her face until I still them all and murmur those few words she's begging to hear, dark and hushed.

"I'm not afraid of you."

And then, like I've pulled out the stop in a dam, freed a wild animal, she grasps my chin and pulls me in.

When my lips meet hers, everything stops. The throbbing disappears in an instant, the pain, even the cloud of my own confusion vanishes with her closeness—the heat of her mouth, the brush of her nose against my cheek. Like someone's trapped us in a bubble beneath the waves, locked us in a sound-proof room because all I can hear is the pounding in my ears and the tiny breath she takes through her nose.

(I think I could have been trapped between moments, and had she not let her hands drop to my waist, I'd have stayed there.)

But she does move her hands, and then her lips move under mine, and when we finally break apart I realize how long I've been holding my breath. It comes out in a kind of gasp as she starts to trail soft kisses down my neck, more heat rising in my face. Without hesitation, she grips the fabric at the bottom of my shirt and firmly pulls it out from where it's tucked under my deep blue skirt.

I wrap my fingers around the back of her neck, feeling baby hairs and hot skin as I guide her back up. Our mouths fuse together again and she grasps at the buttons of my shirt.

I sigh into the kiss when I feel the tip of her tongue across my bottom lip, tasting me. And then, before I can suck her tongue into my mouth, she pulls away like she's just remembered something important, breathing just a little more heavily than she was before. She doesn't look up, just pulls back slightly to stare at my lips and whisper "Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"

I don't even have to process that, just shake my head with quiet conviction. "Don't." For an instant our eyes meet before I step back into her, my body flush with hers. Our mouths immediately open to each other, hot breath and hotter tongues.

Soon I realize that my shirt is open, that her hands are reaching around the waistband of my skirt, searching for the zipper. She finds it an tugs, letting the dark material shift and slide off my hips on its own. When I feel the loss of fabric and the chill of nakedness, I let my hands surge into her hair, pulling her close enough that I can wrap the length of my leg around hers and cling to her body like a vine.

She fumbles with the buttons of her shirt and throws it off the moment she can, twisting to free her wrists from the fabric. And then I look down at her chest, rising and falling with rasping breaths. I swear the soft swells of golden skin could be glowing in the low light, set off by the contrast of brilliant white lace.

She must look down too, because she reaches out to slide her soft palm down the plain of my stomach, and the feeling is so new, so startlingly raw that I gasp.

"Fuck, Brittany," she whispers.

She kisses me again, I watch as she brings her hands to fiddle with the clasp at the front of her bra.

Those hands—still cracked and sore—look so delicate now, struggling with a simple hook. I can't imagine them doing what I've seen them do, what I know they've done. They must have carried out their tasks with such unwavering conviction that it seems strange now that they struggle so frantic and needy. But then the lace is falling away and she must be able to hear me swallow at the overwhelming sight of full breasts, bare and waiting.

When she chuckles, her voice is deep and breathy, and I'm struck with the realization that I've been standing just a beat too long, gently swaying back and forth. She impatiently takes my hands in hers, guides them to her chest until my palms feel their weight and the pads of my fingers can touch their softness.

She sighs, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks from embarrassment and then it's falling lower and twisting itself around until it's joining the throbbing between my legs.

My hands drop to the button of her jeans and I pull until her mouth is on mine again, and her hands replace mine, tugging at her zipper and stepping out of denim legs. Then her hands return to my body, trailing down my sides and dipping below my underwear, around my ass, to pull me towards her. Pressed against the naked length of her body, the ridge of the hip I can feel how wet I am.

I notice her touch, the way she smells, the way she moves, pushes me easily to the bed, carefully guiding the back of my neck to the mattress. Something seems so inexplicably new, so unlike any time I've ever done this. Maybe that should make sense. She's not anything like anyone I've ever been with before, yet somehow this is familiar, like she couldn't possibly be anyone other than who she is.

But that thought hardly makes sense to me, and then she slides the underwear down my legs, her eyes follow them, her fingers trail down the length of my thighs, my calves, and move back up again.

And I can't ignore it now, the need for friction, that desperate aching beat that means I've long since abandoned clear thinking. She must sense it too, because she doesn't waste a single moment.

"_Fuck_."

I moan when she presses her thigh into my center, parting my folds with the smooth expanse of her skin. I push back into her, sliding, coating her thigh with wet heat. Her lips fall onto mine, sucking at my bottom lip, pulling it with her teeth. I let my hands wander the lines and valleys of her stomach. How did I not notice these abs before now?

She shifts slightly to bring her hand to the ridge of my hip, the crease of my thigh. Her mouth drops to my jaw, sucking at the skin there and up beneath my ear, her hot honey breath and the tips of her hair tickling at my neck. She finds my pulse the same time that deft fingers slide through wet folds, and I can't hold back the throaty moan that erupts from somewhere deep inside. My vision clouds, and I white-knuckle the cotton sheets beside my head.

When I pant for more—more pressure, more friction, more heat, _fuck_—she braces her hand against her knee and pushes up into me. She hovers there, above me, her head falling to make wet paths across my chest and throat, her breasts tickling at my stomach, her fingers moving slowly in and out—gathering me up and pulling me toward her.

Somewhere in the distant haze of my subconscious, her words come back to me. _That's just the adrenaline talking_ and she's coming back to my lips, her taut stomach brushing against mine.

Is that what this is? This thing that feels like a beat inside of me, like my pulse... It's not frantic, not hurried, just deliberate—steady, like waves, but unstoppable, like the thunder of a freight train.

I can't name it, and in a flash I'm forgetting to, because she moves from above me, licking a slow trail from my belly button to the crease of my thigh, her weight shifted back into a kneel before she throws her legs behind her and guides my ankles to the blades of her back.

I feel it like an earthquake: "Ugh, _God_," she runs the flat of her tongue once across my center and then she pushes deeper and back up again, her tongue coming to a point as it reaches my clit, and I swear to God the whole bed moves. I can't stop the way my back arches and then my hips lift of the bed, desperate to feel more of her on me.

"Fuck, San–" I gasp, cutting myself off when a single instant of clarity reminds me that I don't know her name yet, not for real.

I bite at the back of my hand as her mouth wraps around me and sucks, before she pushes her tongue back down again, down and then inside of me. My whole body quivers, threatening to collapse in on itself.

I feel her fingernails clinging to the flesh of my thighs, and her dark, wild hair tangled around my fingers. I feel the sheet underneath me cling to my back, now wet with a thin sheen of sweat. I feel her hot tongue coaxing it out of me, deep and slow, until all too soon everything beneath me comes unhinged and I fall between the gap—that rolling void where I feel like time and space have torn apart.

-x-

When I can breathe again—short, erratic gasps—I feel her crawling back up my body. She lifts a damp strand of hair from my face and smirks. Her eyes have grown warmer, like milky chocolate and she plants a kiss on my forehead before falling over to the space beside me.

It's only then, in the chill of her absence, that I realize we've somehow pulled back the covers of the bed. My stewardess jacket is crumpled on the floor underneath the weight of the discarded duvet, but I can't be bothered to care when her voice still makes the back of my neck tingle. "How do you feel?" she says.

"Good."

That word can't even begin to compare to how I feel, but I hope the dopey smile I can't seem to hide tells her as much. She sighs contentedly as she stares up at the ceiling.

Muscle of her carmel shoulder is toned and tenses slightly when I lean over to kiss it carefully. My fingers have found her knee under the sheet and started gliding up her thigh when she interrupts me. "Brittany..."

"Mhmm?" I kiss the tiny mole where her bicep rolls into her shoulder and push my curious fingers further across soft skin.

"Brittany, wait, it's okay." Her hand finds mine and stops it with a firm grip. "You don't have to." I don't understand, but when she finds my eyes there's something both sad and reassuring in them. "You should probably get some sleep."

The moment she says 'sleep,' I remember how tired I am, how heavy I feel just lying there, but I can't brush off confusion that's starting to feel a tiny bit like rejection.

"Later," she promises, and kisses my forehead again.

"Later," I repeat, and roll back over, sinking into my pillow. _Later_, I promise myself, just as the edges of my vision fade into darkness and I finally close my heavy eyes, resigned to fall away into dreams.

-x-

I wake up twice during the night. The first time, I find my face pushed awkwardly into the pillow, my breath refracted back at me by the rise of cotton over my nose. I push away in discomfort only to notice the blue light of a cell phone illuminating a face I know, but not well enough (never well enough). She glances at me in the darkness and whispers, "Go back to sleep."

And then, "you're safe, I promise."

-x-

The second time I blink my eyes open it's because the angle of my arm under the weight of my body has rendered it completely useless and somewhat tingly. Perhaps it's a silly thought, but I slam my eyes closed again, praying to fall back into sleep before the full force of my carelessness can make my chest burn and my fingertips feel like pin cushions.

It doesn't take long for me to realize that it won't work, and instead I roll over onto my back and press angry fingers into the flesh of my sleeping arm, massaging it back to life. The sleeping body beside me shouldn't be surprising but it is, if only for an instant, and memories of the day come flooding back like the feeling in my lifeless limb.

It comes back slowly, like a tide, imperceptible at first but faster at the end until all becomes a mad rush get out of the way. But I can't get out of the way. My arm still stings and burns and my brain still struggles to piece any little thing together that I can.

But it doesn't work.

In a few minutes my arm feels normal again and I'm left with the same barrage of questions and uncertainties. They weigh heavily on my eyelids and I whisper into the dark, eyes tracing the bare curves of the body beside me.

_Who are you?_

No answer comes, just a contented sigh and a faint rustle of the sheets. When I finally fall asleep again it's because I've pushed a quilt over top of all the questions and let myself lay to rest like every piece of a puzzle that doesn't fit together. There, in the dark, under a conceding flutter of eyelashes and slowing of breath, I let myself fall into a kind of contented bewilderment, interrupted only by the sinking certainty that when I wake up again, she'll be gone.


	3. A New Agent and an Old Mistake

**Chapter 3: A New Agent and an Old Mistake**

You don't usually do that.

Not the sex, you sleep with strangers all the time. Will calls them hit-and-runs because you've never once walked into his office asking him to vet a potentially long-term partner. Your life is easier that way, for so many reasons, and not just the cliché ones. It's easier that way and you might even prefer it.

No, you mean that you don't do that with strangers who know who you are.

It's dangerous, for one. For all you know she could be the FSB's newest undercover operative, here to seduce you and turn you into a Russian mole. She could be using you to access FBI personnel files and hack into the grid. Hell, she could work for the Taliban.

But you doubt it. You really fucking doubt it.

It doesn't really matter, in the long run, whether you think she's an innocent or not. There are rules about this, and you've been breaking them ever since you answered her simple question with a simple answer. You've been leaping over the line and chucking procedure out the window since you opened your mouth and your name came spilling out.

You've been sitting here trying to figure it out, your neck awkwardly pressed against the headboard of an unfamiliar bed, watching first the moon and then the rising sun cast mute shadows through translucent blinds.

Maybe you're slipping. Veterans of the service call it burn-out, when a spy slowly loses their fragile grasp on sanity, when the grueling reality of living this life finally takes its toll. You'd hoped that your end might come in some heroic misguided gesture. That, or you get killed on the job. Not like this, not with a stupid mistake because a shy smile and deep sea eyes made you forget to lie.

Maybe it was an off-day.

Your very first off-day.

It was different, somehow, when she knew who you were, when she stifled your name into the back of her hand, when she saw the cracks and bruises across your knuckles and didn't have to ask where you'd gotten them.

She's made you feel like all this time you've been wearing a sweater and only now realize what it is to feel someone else's skin on your own. Like you were never really naked with someone until now.

She sighs deeply, murmurs something in sleep, some remnant from a dream she'll soon forget.

You tell yourself that, last night, it was all about taking care of her. The threat was eliminated, the target's body already cold and stiff, his computer's contents wiped clean, but you still worried that she might need something, someone to be sure she was alright.

You're not nurturing, but she just looked so innocent, so confused, so lost. When she fumbled with her luggage and cursed under her breath, you couldn't just walk away. You couldn't even look away.

But she doesn't look fragile now. With her palm spread carelessly across your stomach, bare back rising and falling with her steady breath, blonde hair strewn across the pillow, she just looks beautiful. She must have a bruise somewhere on the back of her head. There's a single crimson line across her cheek bone, rimmed by deep purple, and it should somehow mar her flawless skin but it only makes her look more real.

You almost trace the cut with your forefinger, but you don't want to wake her, so you stop yourself and tuck your own hair behind your ear instead. You don't want to know what she would say if she woke to find you there, still in her bed, and very real, not the dubious figment of foggy confusion. You don't want to watch her realize who you are, see her eyes shrink back in fear—fear of what you've done and who you are.

Still, somewhere in the back of your mind, some glimmer of foolish optimism reminds you that she said thank you.

No one has ever thanked you before. You've never really given anyone the chance, but you're not sure most people would, even if you did stick around. But instead of lifting your spirits, instead of comforting your growing anxiety, it makes her feel further away from you.

You hardly know her. You know her name. You know she's good. You know she's polite and beautiful and innocent. You know she has light freckles peppered across her stomach.

You know that she doesn't know you.

She shifts a little in her sleep, her nose wrinkling, and you let guilt move you from her grasp, out from between warm sheets. You pad across the floor, retrieve your clothes. There are kinks in your hair and you probably smell like sex, but you don't shower. You can't risk her waking to the sound of the water shutting on or off.

You scoop up your phone from the bedside table—6:14am, no new messages or missed calls. As you button your shirt and try to flatten the creases down your front, you notice a little square pad of paper beside the TV guide. You wonder for a few moments if you should leave a note, but realize you don't know what you would say. The possibilities bubble up before you toss them aside.

_Thank you._

_I'm sorry._

_You're beautiful._

_Have a nice life._

You like the last option best, but can't figure out how to make it sound as sincere as it is. And even if you could somehow communicate this heavy feeling in your chest, how would you sign it? You feel your stomach twist when you really think about that particular blunder. You make a note to check that you didn't give the hotel concierge your real name too.

You don't have any luggage to gather, not even a purse, so you pat your pockets for your phone, credit card, passport. You run your fingers through your hair and look back once more at the sleeping figure you've left in bed. The sheets are tangled and wrapped around her legs and she fidgets slightly in her sleep.

But then she settles with her head tucked awkwardly against her shoulder and it looks wrong.

It looks too much like the last time you saw a head twisted strangely, too much like when you pulled one arm one way and your other arm another way, and how with a staccato crunch, a dark head fell from your grasp, slumped against the wall of the cabin, five o'clock shadow just barely visible over the folds of his jacket.

It makes you nauseous, it makes your vision buzz and the back of your neck instantly cold and clammy. You turn grasping blindly for the door, pull it open, and let it click behind you.

The feeling passes easily enough, and you stand just outside the room, back leaning against the door for support until you're clear-headed again. Then with a sigh of finality, you whisper goodbye to no one and walk away from everything.

-x-

You don't get your wakeup call until you're in the hotel shuttle and halfway down highway 5 to the airport. You stop the buzzing by dragging your finger across the screen lock and raising the phone to your ear. "I'm up," you husk into the receiver.

"You're booked for an 8:45 flight to JFK with US Airways. Briefing meeting at thirteen-hundred hours."

You check the time on your phone. "Cool, see you then." His line goes dead before you can say anything else.

You treat yourself to a coffee at the airport Starbucks. You don't know what it is, you just have the barista make you something hot and strong. She probably thinks you're flirting with her, and you let the smile she flashes lift your mood, but just a little.

You try to nap on the plane, but the man sitting next to you in the middle seat smells like curry and stale cigarette smoke, and every time he smacks his gum, you jerk awake.

You kind of wish you were on a different airline—an airline that didn't have the same deep blue stewardess uniforms—because every time you see one out of the corner of your eye or through a fuzzy haze of near-sleep, you feel that excited pull on your chest before the pang of guilt and disappointment pushes back.

-x-

You've hardly stepped through the pod doors when you hear your name called.

"Lopez!"

And just like that, you've been thrown back into your real life. You're back on the grid, and phones are ringing, the blue haze of monitors reflect off glassy desks, and lower-level personnel are dashing from one place to another, files and manila packets in their hands, perpetual anxiety written across their faces.

"You might want this back." The towering figure stops just short of running you over and pushes a bulky black object into your hands. Hudson looks over both shoulders before letting you have the object. You turn it over and smile at its familiarity. Its been your sidearm since training, and you don't tell anyone, but you've secretly named it Lucy.

"Thanks."

He stays there, though, once you've taken it from him and shifts awkwardly before opening his mouth again. "It was in the ladies room. You left it in the tampon disposal."

You suppress a chuckle and shrug, tucking the gun into the back of your jeans and moving around him to your desk. "I couldn't take it through airport security, could I? It seemed a logical place to hide it."

He rolls his eyes at that and starts to turn away, but your curiosity gets the better of you. "Hey Hudson, who had to fish it out?"

"Some poor girl from surveillance," he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You made Kitty do it?" Another phone rings and the pods door open and close behind you.

"Yeah. We didn't have anyone on the team who could go into the girl's bathroom."

"What do you mean?" You both know where this is going, and Hudson can't get out of it.

He grits his teeth and sighs, "You're the only girl on our field ops team."

You mask your mirth with a facade of thoughtfulness. "Huh. Interesting."

You can see a flash of purple shirt before Anderson comes up to clap you on the back. "Maybe they'll fill the new spot with a woman."

"Too late, Schuester and Corcoran are in there with the new guy now," Hudson points a thumb behind him to where Will's office is tucked between Data Analysis and the meeting room. You can see Will leaning up against his desk, and the dark back of someone's head through the pane of window.

You sigh because that head definitely belongs to a guy. "At least he's not white."

Hudson shuffles around to the desk across from yours, and you pull out a file from the drawer in your desk about blackmarket UAV sales in unincorporated territories before Anderson leans in close to whisper, "Weren't you wearing that yesterday?"

You shoot him an I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it look and then glance threateningly at his ash grey blazer and painfully purple button-down. "Okay, okay, he raises his hands in surrender. "You don't make any comments about how gay my clothes are and I won't bring up how obvious it is that you had sex last night." You smile at that, because Anderson might be the only guy in this whole division who even tries to understand you.

Before you can explain that you'll shower as soon as debriefing is over, Will's office door slides open with a whoosh and you look up at Shelby Corcoran's long legs, a black A-line skirt, and the highest cheekbones you've ever seen.

"Guys, listen up!" Will calls from somewhere behind her.

He opens his mouth like he's about to say something else, but his boss is already interrupting him. "Hi everyone. First of all, where's Lopez?"

Your eyes shoot back up to Corcoran's face and you raise your hand in acknowledgement. "Yeah?"

"Lopez, I heard about your operation yesterday. Well done."

You can't help smile at that, and you feel your face start to heat before you manage to answer, "Thank you, ma'am. The guy made it easy for me."

She nods, suitably pleased by your modesty. "Well I want the summary report on my desk by the end of the day. Okay, secondly, it is my honor to introduce you all to the newest member of the team."

She reaches behind her to point at a man you've never seen before. He looks young, way too young to be doing this job. He's got dark fuzzy hair, a baby nose, and innocent eyes that betray his inexperience. "He's fresh out of the Academy with top scores and brilliant recommendations. He'll be joining the field ops team with Hudson and Lopez."

The grid breaks out in uneasy chatter and even Anderson looks like he's about to turn and say something until Corcoran clears her throat again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Jake Puckerman."

And then the room goes silent.

You can feel the color draining from your face. Flashes of memory and anger bubble up until you shove them down again. After a few beats of palpable shock, someone on your left lets out a low whistle. Slowly heads turn, eyebrows raise, and too many people glance in your direction to gage your reaction. Abrams murmurs, "As I live and breathe."

The new agent nervously brushes a hand through his hair and tries to smile. "Hi guys."

Hudson looks over at you in wild confusion, "Wait, like _Puckerman_, Puckerman?"You don't bother giving credence to his surprise, so he turns to the new guy and, to your dismay, continues to talk. "Are you related to Noah Puckerman?"

You can see the muscles in Jake's jaw ripple and he takes a calming breath through his nose before nodding. "Half brother."

Someone else swears under their breath.

"Crap," Abrams says, "Dude, your brother was a legend."

"Yeah." Hudson crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against his desk. "_Was_ a legend. Until he wasn't."

Jake looks like he's about throw something at his lumbering giant of a new partner, so you jump in to save both of them, and maybe distract people from the way your face has visibly paled. "Hey Hudson, why don't you do something useful. I'm pretty sure the water cooler needs refilling."

He scoffs at that, throws his hands up in the air and frustrated humiliation, and tries to make eye contact with Will. Shelby pats Jake on the back and starts to whisper something in his ear while Will just rubs the skin between his eyes and shouts, "If you have A or B-level clearance, meeting room in five!"

You turn back to your desk with a smirk and only then notice that Anderson is looking at you with big, liquid eyes. "Did you know he had a brother?"

"No." You don't elaborate, just fiddle with the keyboard on your desk.

"Lopez." You look up again to see Will and the new guy hovering near your desk. Corcoran is gone already, and you're glad. You don't need her to hear anymore about any of this. "Santana, can you show Pu— Jake to his new desk, please?"

You nod slowly and motion with your head for Jake to follow you. His desk is in the back, smashed up between the tech guys and a floor to ceiling window that overlooks Broadway and the New York skyline. You show him his seat and it almost feels like you're condemning him to a timeout. You can't even hear pod doors open and close from way over here, just the dull thrum of productivity.

It's like even the building isn't sure if he belongs here.

"At least you've got a view," you say. He stands there looking at it for a minute. The solitary glass desk has a flat monitor, a desk light, and a handset.

He nods his thanks and pulls out the chair to sit at his new workplace, but you cross your arms and lean against the glass, studying him.

He looks so young. And clean, squeaky clean. He's wearing a leather jacket that's so new it looks fake, and the way he picks up the handset with cautious fingers strikes you as strange.

"You don't look like him."

He glances up like he's just noticed you staring at him. "Yeah, well, like I said, he was my half brother." You don't even lift an eyebrow, so he keeps going, challenging you. "Do you have any siblings?"

There's something else you really don't need to talk about. "No."

"Well it might surprise you, then, to find out that people usually aren't exactly like their relatives." You  
don't move a muscle; some grain of humanity is telling you he's the new guy and he doesn't need you ripping off his balls. At least not today.

Then, foolishly, he keeps talking, standing to meet your smouldering gaze. "Look, I know six foreign languages, I can take apart and reassemble a Smith & Wesson faster than most people can tie their shoes, I am fully qualified in the latest counterintelligence procedural manuals, I can tell you the molecular structure, lethal dose, and all the known soviet storehouses of weaponized VX gas, I love my country, and I am _not _my brother."

Underneath your scowl you have to admit that you're a little impressed. You study him a moment longer before your set jaw lifts a little and you nod. "The coffee here is shit, there's a Starbucks across the street. Welcome to FBI."

-x-

"At fifteen-hundred hours yesterday, Special Agent Lopez boarded the US Airways flight number 512 from Seattle to London, UK."

Will leans in closer to read down the report in his hands, following along with a guiding finger. "Our section was acting on intel from an Arab informant, code named Antigone. The source was from Section C in Counterterrorism and we had independent confirmation that Antigone's information was reliable."

Will flips the page. "Special Agent Lopez boarded flight 512 under orders to intercept an Arab courier delivering the activation codes to an advanced weapons system just recently sold to the Saudis. We anticipated the codes would be on their way to a third-party weapons dealer temporarily stationed in Bristol, UK. It is on the record that the British security service—primarily Military Intelligence Section 5—has been more than cooperative during this operation." Will looks up from the sheet, "Hudson?"

Hudson jumps a little in his seat, and Will frowns. "Can we pay attention please, people?"

"Right, yeah." Hudson sits up in his chair a flips to the second page of the post-op report. "TSA conducted a blue-level tech sweep for any medium that might have contained the codes and concluded at..." He leans in further to read the time, "14:49 that the codes were not hidden in any of the baggage checked for flight 512 to Heathrow. Special Agent Lopez was then contacted to board the flight with the intention of locating the codes on board and neutralizing any resistance before the plane entered into international airspace."

Hudson finishes his part and lets the paper fall lifelessly to the meeting room table. Will clears his throat, "Lopez?"

You're about to start talking when there's a frenzied knock at the door and Anderson slides it open to step in, "NSA flash. You'll want to see this." He reaches around and sets a clean sheet of paper in front of Will before scurrying out of the room.

The room falls into a kind of pensive silence as Will reads down the sheet. His eyes get darker and your blood runs a little cooler in your veins when he meets your gaze over the top of the sheet. His voice is clearer than it has been all afternoon when he says, "Everyone, out."

You'd get up to leave but he's almost pinning you to your seat with his eyes. You can't remember him ever looking this angry before. When Hudson and Jake get up and shuffle out, you try preparing yourself for the worst, even though you're not sure what the worst is.

The meeting room door slides closed again with a click and Will slowly lowers the paper to rest neatly on top of the post-op report. "Santana, is there something you want to tell me?"

Shit.

He's found out about the most gorgeous flight attendant on this side of the Greenwich time zone. And judging by the look Will's giving you, something went wrong. That thought shoots a shiver down your spine and you struggle to stop yourself from picturing her slender wrists duct taped to radiator or her body shoved in the trunk of a car.

Its your fault. If it weren't for you, she'd probably be handing an overweight man his turkey sandwich right now. Maybe fixing a little kid's seat belt. But you'll be damned if you let Will know what you're thinking. "What do you mean?"

"After getting off the plane you took a taxi to the Hilton and checked in as Claire Olivarez, yes?" His face is unreadable.

"Yeah, that's right." You're a fucking idiot. You let your insane libido cloud your judgement and now her life is in danger, if she isn't dead already. You've literally ruined someone's life because you're incapable of self-control. That's got to be a new low.

Will sighs, glancing down to review the paper once more. You promise that if she's dead, you'll never forgive yourself. "Jesus Will, just tell me. What's going on?"

"There was a surveillance team at the hotel. It was a stakeout—three different cars at different entrances, all with stolen plates."

You're not sure you're following, but he keeps talking. "Local police checked it out when someone called in to report the suspicious activity and we have CCTV confirming they followed you there and didn't leave until nine-hundred hours today. You didn't check for tails on your way to the hotel, did you?"

"Why would I? I had no reason to." You stare back at him as dangerously as you can.

"Apparently you did."

You feel like you're six inches tall until you realize he's just sitting there, staring at the report again. "Wait, that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it. Why, what were you expecting? Gang violence?" You do your best not to look embarrassed until he's thrown the paper down and buried his head in his hands. "Do you realize what this looks like? Are you even aware of how completely screwed we are? An agent at your level just forgetting to check for tails? Santana, we're going to get eaten alive when the post-op report goes out."

She's not dead. At least not yet. They were just watching her. No zip ties and black hoods, no shady spy with a silencer and a kill order. You still have a chance to get her out of there.

"Well apparently, the op isn't over yet."

He ignores you, looking back at the NSA flash and scratching the back of his head. "What I don't understand is why they didn't leave when you did." He leans over to the conference phone in the middle of the massive meeting room desk. He holds a button near the top and clears his throat, "Have Anderson come back in here."

You swallow thickly and he's looking back at you again, his stare is actually penetrating for the first time since you started working here. Probably because you know you deserve it. "You did leave the hotel before eight like you said you did, right?"

"Yes." You're beginning to realize there's no way you're getting more answers until you explain what's really going on. "Actually, Will, there is something more to the story."

Before he can react, the meeting door is sliding open and Anderson's curly hair pokes in first.

"Anderson, can we get the CCTV footage that this is referring to?" Will holds out the clean paper and in seconds Anderson is nodding, snatching the paper, and leaving the room in gut-numbing silence. "What do you mean, more to the story?" It's less of a question than a demand.

You can feel your cheeks heat with shame, shame because you've fucked up and now he knows you did. "After I got off the plane I went to the hotel, just like I said. But... I wasn't alone." He's studying you from beneath thick eyebrows. His face betrays no flicker of judgement, just torturous patience. "One of the flight crew was kind of having trouble figuring out where she was and what was going on."

"Kind of having trouble?" There's that arrogant cynicism.

"She got hit in the head, Will. She's the casualty you just filed." You say it like its justification, and maybe by convincing him, you'll convince yourself.

"So you took her to a hotel for the night?" His eyes are cold. He might have been giving you the benefit of the doubt before, but you think he can see right through you now.

"Yeah. We arrived at the same time. I don't know when she left in the morning."

"So it might have been at nine this morning?"

You nod slowly, and you can see most of the muscles in his face visibly clench. He throws the report he's been white-knuckling against the table violently, and pulls his hand into a clenched fist.

"Dammit. You took her to a hotel? Santana, that is _not_ how we do things here."

You don't bother trying to defend yourself. You screwed up. You both know it, and you briefly hope that he's evolved enough to realize you're going to hate yourself for this longer than any kind of reprimand would bother you. Actually, he's always been all bark and no bite, so you like your chances.

He presses the flat of his palm against his forehead and starts to think it out verbally. "Okay, we're looking at a relatively sophisticated organization if it can spontaneously mobilize three vehicles in a random city to just watch a building all night. But as far as we know, they didn't make any move beyond that."

You nod along, glad to be able to start doing something. "Either they were specifically targeting me or it was still about the activation codes."

"You better pray to your all your saints, Lopez, that this isn't about you. That would mean they have the intelligence and funding to follow you all the way across the country and either board a plane with you four minutes before scheduled takeoff, or they have access to traffic control information that would have told them about the emergency stop in St. Paul." Will stands up to start pacing the room.

"That's totally implausible, though. Surely if they had that much influence, manpower, and intel, they wouldn't be targeting someone like me. They'd aim way higher in the pecking order."

Will nods. "Okay, so we assume for now that this is about those codes and Saudi access to WMDs."

"So say it's a third party that was probably on the plane with me, the courier, and the codes."

"The third-party agent watches you neutralize the courier and appropriate the codes."

"He won't have seen me destroy them, the flight attendant and I did it in the back."

"Okay, okay," Will says, tapping his fingers along the backs of chairs as he passes them, going back and forth. "So the third-party agent must have been following the codes from their side, otherwise they'd know that our plan has been to destroy the codes all along. For all they know you and this flight attendant were both working undercover."

"And better still, they don't necessarily even realize that I work for the US government."

"Great. That's really good. That'll be what saves my balls when I have to explain all this to Shelby."

"Okay." You try to ignore the fact that he's more excited about his balls than he seems to be about the danger an innocent person must be in at this very moment.

"So how'd you leave the hotel? Why wouldn't they have followed you?"

His question is fair one, but that doesn't change the fact that you have no idea of the answer. "I had the airport shuttle there and ready the moment I stepped out of the building. Its possible that by some weird fluke they didn't recognize me or missed it altogether." You and Will exchange skeptical glances because it's never safe to rely on coincidence.

Just as you're about to admit that you might be wrong, Anderson barges into the room again. "Your CCTV footage is on channel two." He tips his head to the large screen hanging above the meeting table on the far wall.

Will nods at him—it's a simultaneous 'thank you' and 'get out'—and snatches the remote from the table, pointing it at the screen with practiced speed. The visual flashes onto the screen in an instant, and grainy footage shows a hotel parking lot in morning light. Tiny white numbers in the bottom corner of the screen tick up until, at precisely 09:04:47, a slim figure with loose blonde hair strides from off screen into a hotel shuttle. Moments later the shuttle is rolling out of the lot.

Your stomach drops when one of the parked cars, a deep grey BMW, pulls out of the lot and into traffic, only a few vehicles behind Brittany's.

"Shit," you whisper.

"Well, it's only been a few hours since this happened. If we're very lucky, they'll still just be tailing her, maybe waiting for her to make a dead drop or call in or something." You have a very hard time letting yourself be comforted by that.

"Right," you nod in resignation, trying desperately not to think about what all this really means, "Well that's it then. We find her, we find them, whoever they are."

-x-

It takes the team less than half an hour to find out everything you could ever want to know about Brittany Susan Pierce. Thanks to Data Analysis and the 2015 reinstitution of the PATRIOT Act, you learn that she took dance lessons until she was 17, that the last time she had a cavity was eight years ago, and that the money in her bank account has never reached five digits. She lives in the South Bronx with a journalist roommate and probably two cats, judging by the amount of cat food she buys every month.

Abrams does a little extra digging and tells you that all her recent phone calls have either been to coworkers or family. He laughs out loud when he sees her browser history. Apart from checking email, she's only logged on to the internet twice in the last three weeks.

When Abrams and Hudson argue over whether her codename should be Legs or Barbie, you spontaneously reach over to your handset and unceremoniously punch in her apartment's landline. Your stomach doesn't flip with nerves until the pause after the third ring, and you're strangely surprised, even disappointed, when the phone is answered by an unfamiliar voice.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Cassy with ConEdison Energy, is Brittany Pierce available?" Hudson and Abrams still beside you, motioning for the new guy to be quiet when he steps next to your desk as well.

The woman at the other end sounds like she's sweating. "Uh, why? Is there a problem?"

"Brittany Pierce is still the main account holder for this address, correct?"

"Yeah, probably, I don't remember. She's away with work now, though." The voice at the other end pauses after that and you consider asking when she's expected home, but before you can ask, the voice is back, her tone threaded with unease. "Is this a problem with the automatic bill pay? Because if it is, that's just a misunderstanding, Brittany might have accidentally hooked that up to a savings account."

You can't help the tiny grin that erupts when she says that. "Oh, no, no, it's fine, I'm sure. We just need her to verify a few things. Do you know when she'd be able to call us back?" Out of the corner of your eye you see the new guy hunch over the edge of your desk, scribbling out a message on scratch paper.

"I think she's supposed to be back in town on Friday. Or what if I just give you her cell number? Do you already have it?"

"Oh I'm sure we have it here, thanks for the cooperation, Ms...?"

"Rose, Marly Rose. I'm the roommate."

"Well thank you Ms. Rose–" The new guy finally finishes his note and waves it in front of you, as if it were still important: _Boss says no contact. _

When you hang up the phone, all three of the men standing around you with big, bewildered eyes. You don't look at them though, you slam down your handset and march straight toward Will's office.

He's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, deep lines in his face betraying anger. "What the hell Santana? You don't get to give me attitude when you're the one acting prematurely. It's like you're trying to screw this up!"

You ignore his accusation. "Why no contact?"

The slight deviation in his gaze warns you that he's thinking on the spot. "We don't know what kind of situation we're about to walk in on. They might have her phones tapped, in which case you've just given them a very clear indication that their suspicions are dead-on and that she's somehow wrapped up in a clandestine operation."

"Oh come on, Will. We've done this a thousand times before. Just let me call her and arrange to meet. I can use a pay as you go mobile and have guys with guns and bulletproof vests right there to take her in if something goes down. She needs to know she's in danger, we at least owe her that." He's not buying it so you throw in "she trusts me and will do what I tell her."

"Don't be naïve Santana."

And if you weren't pissed off before, you are now. "Give me one good reason I can't call her and take her in."

"Okay look," Will grabs your arm and ushers you hurriedly into his office, sliding the door behind you. He doesn't sit down, he just stands right in front of you and meets your glare head-on. "No contact. This is an order. I know you're not so good with following orders, but this is over my head. It's coming from the very top."

"What the hell is going on? If I find out this is about politics, so help me God, I'll–"

"I'm on the phone with the Executive Assistant Director's office, I'm trying to figure that out. But until I do, _no contact_. Okay, Lopez?"

"So what are we supposed to do? I can't just sit around waiting while these people are just wandering around, totally under the radar, somewhere between here and Bumfuck, Minnesota."

He rolls his eyes at that, just as the phone on his desk starts to ring. He swings around his desk and says, "Brief the whole team, even the new guy, and be ready to recommend a plan of action to me in fifteen minutes." He lifts the receiver, waves you out, and you just catch him say, "Anthony, hi. Please tell me Shelby got ahold of you," before you close the door on your way out.

-x-

You decide to call her Bluebell, mostly because your other options are just plain disrespectful. The whole team is halfway through realizing that you have no idea how to find her without actually calling her up on the phone when Anderson bursts in. He's all smiles and purple dress shirt saying she just made a purchase with a credit card in Manhattan.

Minutes later, Abrams is making gangster hand gestures because Bluebell has signed into her email account and confirmed a get-together with someone named Quinn for the day after tomorrow. A plan quickly develops and you'd be totally on board if it didn't completely rely on the hope that nothing awful happens between now and then.

Hudson pitches it to Will, and it's looking like you're going to feel like a helpless piece of shit for another forty-eight hours.

-x-

You're exhausted by the time get to the bar. Your back is sore and there's a burning behind your eyes from staring at a computer screen all day. But you need a stiff drink or a good lay to make you forget how much of a fuckup you are.

It's busy for a Wednesday. Couples chat easily at the two-seater tables and half the bar stools are already occupied. Lines of a reggae beat carry across the chatter from the floor above.

"Kamikazi and a shot of gin," you tell the bartender and settle onto a stool, running your fingers over the wine-tinted marble bar.

He cracks a tiny grin and nods as he flips a fresh cloth towel over his shoulder. "Long day?"

You flash a transparent fake smile and say, "yeah," so he won't try to start a conversation.

It doesn't take long. Three pulls on the kamikaze and a tiny hair-flip when you see her smiling at you from across the bar, and she's walking over.

She's tall, thin. Deep red hair curls out from a low, off-the side pony and her round red lips part in a half-smile. "I haven't seen you here before." She has perfect teeth.

You smirk and throw the shot of gin down your throat. It burns, and you like the way it warms your chest as you draw your gaze down her body and back up. "Yeah. Maybe I should start coming here more often."

You introduce yourself as Nikki and she nods without batting an eyelash. She believes you, and why wouldn't she?

(You love it.)

(You love the way she looks at you like you're just a name and a body. You love this careless anonymity, where you don't have to be Santana Lopez and you don't have to know what you know and where everything about you is just a blank slate, waiting to be reinvented.)

Half and hour later, when she excuses herself to use the lady's room, she brushes her fingers casually along your arm and the look she shoots at you over her shoulder is nothing short of predatory. The way she sways her hips screams something like 'come and get it.'

You know that sex in a Bar 13 bathroom stall is about as trashy as it gets, but you also know that's never stopped you before. She looks pleased with herself when you follow, and the smug smile doesn't leave her face until you've got four fingers deep inside of her and she's clinging to the back of your shirt a little tighter with every thrust of your hand.

When she comes, she lets out this too-loud throaty moan and bangs the back of her head into the side of the stall. "Jesus fucking Christ," she pants, "how did you do that?" You don't answer, you just grin and help her pull down the hem of her dress.

It shocks you a little bit when she flips your positions and pins you to the wall, plunging her tongue into your mouth. She pulls away just long enough to say "Okay, baby. Tell me how you want it." Then it's like she's trying to feel every part of your mouth and squeeze all the air out of your chest with probing hands. "How do you want me to fuck you?"

It takes you a few seconds to remember how to form the words, but between ragged little gasps you manage to say, "I want you to lick me."

And then she's on the tile floor, her dress rustling carelessly around the toilet seat as she drags your jeans and your underwear down your legs and motions for you to brace your foot against tank.

When you climax, you feel like you're finally getting a song out of your head. It's like, for the first time in over 24 hours, you can close your eyes and not see yourself breaking the neck of a man with five o'clock shadow. You don't know anyone's half brother, and you don't have to smell the ghosting scent of Brittany's hair. You're just consumed by blissfully white oblivion.

You don't even feel hollow until you're in a taxi on your way to your apartment with the cheapest bottle of tequila you could find.

-x-

It isn't until noon the next day that Will admits nobody will tell him a goddamn thing about the no contact order. After a few more phone calls, he realizes he's not even sure who first issued it.

You're seething, literally seething. Will is off being completely useless, Hudson is playing solitaire on his computer and the new guy clearly has no idea what to do. You're too busy being mad to explain to him that there is nothing to do.

Well that's not quite true, but you can't imagine monitoring illegal weapons sales websites until this mess is sorted out. So you're watching CNN and looking back over CCTV footage near the hotel in St Paul and her apartment in the Bronx for the last few days, tapping your heals on the ground and wishing to God you could smoke the cigarette you hid in your bra this morning (just in case you needed it).

Will calls Hudson into his office at about 2pm and they talk. They talk for a long time, and you've been to the fax machine twice, trying to pass by the window and read their expressions. You're not used to being left out of things like this, but you think maybe Will is starting to punish you.

That's why you're so surprised when Hudson calls you in ten minutes later and Will tells you to take a seat. He folds his hands across the desk and chews the inside of his lip before finally saying, "I've got a contact, someone I want you to meet with. He might know who issued the no contact order, maybe even something about Bluebell and whoever is following her."

"Okay," you say evenly, "why aren't you going to do it?"

"Well the reason that you're going to tell everyone else is that I've got someone of my own to meet. I'm going to give the Saudi ambassador a little visit."

You frown because that's not quite Will's typical MO. You'd be surprised if he even gets an audience. You were pretty sure that most of what he does anyway is sit in his office and call people. "And the other reason?"

"He doesn't know he's my contact, and for right now, I need maximum deniability."

Between suspicious glances you say, "Then why not send the new guy? Nobody will recognize him."

Hudson cuts in, "As far as I'm concerned, he's got to earn our trust for sensitive stuff like this." You decide not to say anything about him maybe taking this half-brother thing too far. "New guy is going to be listening in with me, learn the ropes. Seeing as how you're clearly about to lose your shit by sitting around doing nothing, I volunteered you to run point."

"Also, I think your feminine charms might help..." Will scrunches up his face, "lubricate the situation."

You almost choke on a laugh, "Well I'm not going to be _lubricating_ anything else, am I?"

"No, no," Will blanches, "Not that kind of op. Really, I just need you to get as much info as possible without tipping off the CIA that we're digging."

"Wait," you hold up your finger for emphasis, "This guy is CIA?"

"Sort of. He's the CIA consultant to the NCPC."

"You want me to spy on the National Counterproliferation Center and the Central Intelligence Agency?" You're kind of incredulous, almost thrilled to finally find something useful to do. Maybe even a little excited in a strange you-know-you-shouldn't-be kind of way.

"Not spying, per se. Santana, if you don't feel comfortable with this, I'll leave it up to your discretion. You can decide whether or not to tell him who you are and what we need to know. But I do need you to tell me if you don't feel comfortable doing this."

"No I'm doing it." You take a deep breath to slow a few speeding thoughts. "So who is this guy?"

"His name is Jesse St. James."

-x-

You find him at a tiny table in the lounge of The Surrey Hotel on the Upper East Side. In a charcoal three-piece suit, he looks like part of the interior design of ivory walls and striking black leather lounge chairs. He's nursing what looks like a James Bond martini and idly scanning the world news page of the New York Times.

Your confidence is bolstered by your utter relief to be taking one step closer to Brittany. You haven't even figured out your opening line until you're right in front of him in your blood red cocktail dress and smoky eyeshadow. "The thing about the New York Times is that you don't really get world news, you get American foreign policy with just a dash of journalistic cynicism." Because you figure a guy like this will appreciate a little snob, you add, "And sometimes bad writing."

When he's done checking you out, there's a hint of a smile in his eyes as he says, "Maybe I'm attempting to gauge the collective American reaction to foreign issues." You look at him skeptically until he gives in. He waves his hand, offering you the seat next to him. "Jonathan Grover."

"Uh huh, and I'm Jennifer Lopez." You ignore his attempt to shake your hand but still take the seat, gracefully crossing one leg over the other. It isn't until St. James has checked you out again that he cocks his head to the side and asks if he knows you from somewhere.

"No, you don't know me. But I know you."

St James' eyes flash something dangerous, but he disguises it well with a graceful sip of his martini. "Then I suppose you realize that I have a lot of experience with this game we're playing. To put if proverbially, the odds are stacked, and not in your favor." You could almost laugh at how easy it was to make this guy feel defensive.

"Woah, settle down there, 007. Yeah, you're right, I am intelligence service. But for now I'm friendly."

"I didn't think the the Mexican National Defense could afford an ensemble like that." His eyes fall to your chest. _"Impresionante._"

You dish out a humorless laugh. "I wouldn't know."

"So what do you want from me?" It occurs to you that he might always be defensive.

"Relax, Maestro, this is more about what I can do for you." He doesn't say anything, just hides behind another sip of his martini. There's probably fucking vodka in it.

You don't feel like playing power games anymore so you jump right in. "Two days ago, a US Airways flight from SeaTac airport to Heathrow reported an inflight incident involving the assault of a flight attendant named Brittany S. Pierce. According to CNN, Fox News, The Washington Post, and the Minnesota Star Tribune, one of the passengers intercepted the attacker and restored order on the aircraft until it could make an emergency landing in the St Paul International Airport."

"That sounds accurate."

"It's not." In his uncertainty you reach out and take a dainty sip from his martini. You were right. It's a vodka martini and now there's a moist smudge of red where your lips pressed against the glass. "You know and I know that was an FBI covert operation to intercept WMD codes on their way to Saudi Arabia."

You have his attention now and he's glancing around the lounge to make sure no one is listening. "How–"

"But here's the thing," you interrupt, "They botched it. Your people weren't the only ones watching those codes. Someone else was on that flight—the French, al Qaeda, Mossad maybe, I don't know—and they saw someone they weren't supposed to see, or they thought they did. Now they're somewhere between St Paul, Minnesota and God knows where following a goddamn flight attendant. We both know it's not going to take long for them to find out that they're really looking for an FBI agent, maybe Counterterrorism, Counterproliferation..."

You watch his eyes like you're trying to see if your guesses are right. It's impressive that he doesn't squirm. "So whatever is going on, I recommend you guys figure out your shit before God-knows-who murders a US citizen over a Saudi coup and we all end up in World War Three."

This next part of your speech is the part you're worried about. "If an _espias _like me can figure out that your people were running that op, they're going to find out too." It's really just a guess but you build on it anyway, praying that you're making sense, "Something tells me you don't want that."

He fiddles with the edge of his newspaper, not looking up. He doesn't say anything for so long that you feel uncomfortable and almost uncross your legs, but then he furrows his brow and glances up. "You know this is FBI, why are you speaking with me about it?"

"The FBI won't touch it." You see his face change slightly—so slightly you couldn't even name what it is. and feel the heat of anger rising in your own face. "Wait, you won't either. What the hell, why?"

"Maybe you should read the news," he says without a hint of triumph and swings the newspaper around to face you. You don't see what he means until he points out one of the articles below the fold. When you start to read it, your mouth falls open.

_President Chris Christie to Host Saudi-Israeli Peace Talks_

_WASHINGTON D.C. – Saudi Arabian officials spoke with White House correspondents on Tuesday, confirming King Abdullah's intentions to attend American-brokered peace talks in the coming weeks. __Ehud Barak, __Israel's defense minister, also has plans to join the talks, making this the first chance at a peace deal between Israel and a charter member of the Arab League in over two years..._

You can't believe you didn't see this before. One silly little New York Times article and all the pieces are clicking into place. You glance up from the paper to realize that St James has left you at the table with the bill for his wannabe Bond cocktail.

-x-

Hudson and the new guy are waiting for you about a block down the street, leaning up against the retaining wall that separates 5th Avenue from Central Park. They're hunched together under the yellow-tinted street lights with what looks like iPod earbuds draped between them.

You don't stop as you reach them, just casually tug the wire out from your cleavage and hold it out over your shoulder for Hudson. When they both catch up to you and Hudson snatches the tiny microphone from your fingers, he frantically whispers in your ear. "What were you doing Lopez? We just fingered a CIA operative for information and we didn't even learn anything! You're a fucking piece of work, you know that?"

You don't even look at him, just pull the folded section of the New York Times out from under your arm and say, "You should read the news."

They both scuffle around behind you, trying to read the small print in the street light and still keep up with your brisk pace. Finally Hudson says, "Saudi peace talks? How did we not know about this?"

You're both surprised when the new guy speaks up, "So your operation just blundered into the middle of peace politics?"

You can practically hear Hudson rolling his eyes behind you. "This stuff would have been nice to know 48 hours ago," he grumbles. "Still, this was a wasted trip. You bought the guy's drink, told him you were a Puerto Rican spy, and we're no better off than if we'd just flipped on fucking CNN."

"Mexican," you snap.

"What?"

"He thought I was Mexican, not Puerto Rican, you idiot." He still looks confused, so you turn to the new guy who's now walking comfortably beside you.

The new guy is quick on the uptake. "Puerto Rico is an unincorporated US territory," he says to Hudson. "Their intelligence service is basically us."

Hudson glares. "Well then maybe that's what you should have told him, Lopez. Then we wouldn't have had to lie to the CIA for a goddamn newspaper clipping."

"I didn't lie for a newspaper clipping, Hudson," you tell him, crossing over to the other side of the street. It's not until you see the flags above the French Consulate that you explain yourself. "Sometimes my prerogatives are a wee bit more nuanced than the objectives given to me by William Schuester."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Look, I'll explain it all if you shut up and listen. Bottom line is we have the answer, the reason nobody will talk to Will or let us near Bluebell. Politicians in ivory towers don't want us lowly spooks screwing up their foreign affairs. Will is going to be happy just knowing why his buddies from the DI and the NSB headquarters won't talk to him. He was probably worried they didn't like his hair or something."

"Stop digressing."

"Even if the damn State Department won't let me contact Bluebell..."

Suddenly the new guy stops walking, and when you and Hudson glance back, he's gaping at you. "Holy hell, that's genius."

You smirk. Hudson still looks like he can't figure out how sex works. You think about calling him out on the fact that he's still miles behind the FBI's IQ average, but decide the new guy might want to do that instead.

"They won't let you so you're going to make sure someone else does," the new guy grins. "You put the pressure on the NCPC by making them think it's easier to track the airplane op back to us than it actually is. It gives them more incentive to do something about the problem and less incentive to try to wait it out and hope no one will figure out what's really going on."

You give the new guy an approving nod and glance back over your shoulders to make sure no one is overhearing the three of you. There's no one around, just a dog-walker and taxi parked on the other side of the street. "Exactly. Now nailing down a tenuous peace deal is about taking care of the Bluebell situation, not pretending it's not happening."

Hudson is about to say something, but then his phone rings a raucous triplet and he digs a hand into the pocket of his AF jacket to fish it out. "Hudson," he answers. Between irregular pauses he mumbles "Yes," "She's finished," "Yeah okay," and then he's shoving the phone at you, mouthing 'Will.'

When Will starts talking on the other line, he sounds tired. "_Lopez, you're done with your chat?_"

"Yeah. You should fire our guy in the press office."

"_We don't have a guy in the press office_."

"Maybe we should get one," you say, and then after winking at Hudson, you add "Or better yet, a woman. You know, to make gender representation a little more equal in our division."

He ignores your sass. "_Do you need to come in for a debrief?_"

"No," you mumble defeatedly, "we didn't get anything you couldn't learn by switching on the news. Better yet, check out the New York Times, page..." You pin the phone to your face with a shoulder and snatch the newspaper from Hudson's armpit, "page D1, about halfway down."

"_Okay_," he trails off. "_Well, I don't know what you said to St. James, but he just scheduled a meeting with me for first thing tomorrow. He wants to come on as special consultation for this debacle._"

You can't help the grin the blooms under your nose. "I can't wait for him to see my face."

"_You did well, Lopez._"

"Yes I did," you say before you can think about how asinine it makes you sound. "But then shouldn't we come in to prep? We can strategize and come up with a few options for when he shows up? I bet the CIA will—"

"_No. I'm sick of your attitude, so I want you to go home, pop and Ambien, and sleep it off. Debriefing at seven hundred hours, tell Hudson and Pu-Jake I want them there too._"

He doesn't wait for you to say goodbye, and even the smouldering that's happening under Hudson's thick eyebrows can't lift your spirits, which have suddenly fallen onto the pavement at your feet.

You don't want to let this rest, you don't want to go back to your dark, empty apartment. You don't want to be left alone with your guilt, so you toss the phone in his direction and wave down the next taxi you see, evading your teammate's questioning looks until you're about to climb in. "Debriefing is at seven. You boys have a good night." And then you're in the back of a cab telling the driver to take you to the nearest nightclub he can think of.

-x-

It turns out your cab driver was confused about what you meant by nightclub. He takes you to a place called Sapphire New York and you start to wonder about it when both the entrances have a tacky blue awning and are surrounded by men. If that didn't clue you in, the sickly pink lighting and potted palm trees inside make it pretty obvious. But it's not until you see four half-naked women getting friendly with a shiny, metal floor-to-ceiling pole that you remember the taxi just dropped you off and you'll have to call another one before you can get the hell out of here.

You settle for waiting outside, about a block away from the entrance because half a dozen men were looking at you like they thought you were an off-duty sex worker. To give yourself something to do and to fight off the chill tickling your bare arms, you pull a papery smooth cigarette and a lighter out of your bra. (You've been holding onto them all day.)

You light the end and pull a lung full of menthol in through your lips, watching the cloud of your exhale dissipate in the air, along with the clingy anxiety that's been wrapped around your limbs all day.

"Can I bum a smoke?" It's a man's voice, low, flat, and way too close to you. You turn to tell him to go fuck something dead, and it hits you like ice cubes down your back. You know that voice, that jawline, that smell of spearmint, cologne, and faint musk. You know those eyes, even though they've grown less piercing with age; they know more now. You know more now.

"Puck."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for sticking with this! If you want, you should definitely drop a review. Thanks again to LateInLifeTiburon for being a beta with this chapter and the last one as well!**

**If you're bored and want to check it out, my tumblr is fluidblueprint dot tumblr dot com**


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